


The Cursed Demon

by bioticfox (ayambik)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Footnotes, Gen, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Nanny Ashtoreth (mentioned), Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Sickfic, could be read as either gen fic or ship fic, demonic curses, my attempt at humour, the choice is yours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:35:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22576432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayambik/pseuds/bioticfox
Summary: Crowley goes to check on Warlock after the apocalypse, but a trap has been set, leaving Crowley hurt and on death's door. Can Aziraphale figure out how to save him in time?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 145





	The Cursed Demon

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the Good Omens Big Bang. There is AMAZING art to go along with it done by an amazing ARTIST Jack (agent_of_mischief on Ao3), which you can find [here ](https://twitter.com/YogSothott/status/1225154230832574464?s=19)
> 
> Thank you very much to BardofHeartDive for beta'ing this for me, and once again thanks to my [artist.](https://twitter.com/YogSothott)

It started with a bribe, just a slight temptation.

 _"Go on,"_ he whispered into the bodyguard's ear, _"what harm could it do?"_ and the next thing he knew, a discrete brown envelope was dropped through the letterbox of a sleek Mayfair flat. The doorman noticeably paid no notice. Not that he would have anyway, regardless of any demonic activities prompting the disinclination. It was Mayfair. That sort of thing happened.

"What's that, my dear?" Aziraphale asked, stepping around the cheese plant Crowley had decided to make an example of.

"Hrng?" Crowley said, shoving both envelope and contents into his pocket faster than an angel could say _gesundheit,_ wincing at the sound of ripping paper. "Nothing. Junk mail. Take away menus for the chip shop. Speaking of, fancy some lunch?"

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed, but, with a great show of angelic mercy, he politely said nothing.

-

The letter burned a hole in Crowley’s pocket for the rest of the day. He resolutely did not twitch at the minute crinkles emanating from his pocket as he moved about the flat, watering and torturing the plants in equal measure, and he absolutely did not pat down his pockets at least twice an hour to make sure the paper was still there and had not vanished into the ether with an ill-timed swish of his jacket. He definitely didn’t do any of these things, no matter what Aziraphale thought he saw with his narrow, watchful eyes, and Crowley would swear his best begonia on it.

When he finally pulled out the letter from his pocket, it was much, much later, long after Aziraphale had retired to the newly-restored and in no way burnt down bookshop, and the sun had dipped behind the tower blocks leaving only a faint dull glow in the sky. He sat down on his couch, elbows on his knees, and examined the letter, snake eyes peering down at the messy handwritten script. The contents of the letter, as expected, were brief, unassuming, and unidentifiable. The American accent dripped from the page with the words, written as follows:

  1. The kid's new tutor reports that he is passing most of his classes, except English class.
  2. He's decided he's going to be an astronaut.
  3. There was an incident with another classmate, B. Smith. The kid punched him.



English class. Crowley scoffed, almost regretting inventing academia[1]. In no way was his disdain an attempt to shove down all the decidedly un-dastardly, all-too-inconvenient _feelings_ the demon definitely-did-not-feel at hearing his little baby Warlock wanted to go off into the stars. _His creation._

Also, B. Smith undoubtedly deserved it.

-

[1] Crowley reasoned that the study of _anything_ counts as sinful, if asking questions is worthy of falling. At least, that's what he said to Head Office. [return]

-

After a few months and a few more brown envelopes (and one misguided attempt at a text message), his informant got cold feet, or resigned, or was reassigned. Most inconveniently, Crowley thought, as he now had to go check up on the Warlock situation himself (and perhaps find a new bodyguard to tempt into a little light spying)[2]. 

"Damn it!" He threw the crumpled resignation paper into the corner of the room, where it promptly turned to ash. The plants quivered at the outburst. He glared at them. Normally, the Dowling's Regent's Park estate wasn't terribly far from Mayfair. This particular day, however, Crowley had instructed all the traffic lights in Marylebone to inanimately go on strike, and so, naturally, they had. 

"Language, Crowley," Aziraphale said with the patient tone of a parent telling a toddler not to eat dirt for the fifth time, and one who has entirely given up, except to preserve appearances. He didn't even look up from his book.

Crowley growled at the wall. He’d revelled in all the low grade wrath coming from the resulting traffic light chaos just up the road all morning. Now, of course, the wrath was his. He had to drive in it. 

"I'm heading up to Regent's park, Angel. Unfinished business. Won't be long." Relatively speaking, he thought, as he grabbed his jacket and flung himself out the door.

-

[2] Crowley reckoned that any human child with such long term exposure to both demonic and angelic forces would need monitoring. Just in case. [return]

-

Upon arrival, a good hour later, Crowley did something he'd not done in a long time. Finding a good shadowy spot, appropriately dark and foreboding, he took a deep breath and lurked. Or, he tried to.

“What's the plan, Crowley?”

“Gah!” The sudden angelic presence at his side left the air tingling across his skin with the afterstatic of invisible lightning strikes and the low grade buzz of electricity. It tasted like chocolate. “Angel! What are you doing here?”

“I came to help, of course. With your- how did you put it? _Unfinished business."_ Crowley had thought Aziraphale above the use of air quotes. It turned out he was not. 

"Oh, well,” he fumbled, willfully ignoring the too bright tone of Aziraphale’s voice. “You might as well go home now, angel. It's barely worth my time really, definitely a waste of yours, think of all the books you could be reading instead-" 

Crowley tried, he really did.

"Nonsense, dear boy. It's a fine afternoon to be outside. Now, what exactly are we going to be doing?"

"Um." Crowley said, eloquently. He had the lie ready, on the tip of his tongue, when Aziraphale looked at him and his brain shorted out. There was a small fizzle and a quiet pop and the lie was gone. "I- um. I mean. Well," he inflated like an overweight pigeon fluffed up in the rain. "I think it's possible that the not-antichrist might not be entirely normal. Wise to keep an eye on him, don't you think?"

The lie that disappeared on his tongue had not been, however, the lie he'd been telling himself. Aziraphale smiled regardless, remembering a small child being held every so softly by his nanny's careful hands, and saw the excuse for what it was.

"Alright, my dear. I shall follow your lead."

Crowley blinked. "You what?"

"After you." 

-

It was a miracle the Dowling's were in London at all. They'd taken to splitting their time between the DC apartment and the London residence, and by all schedules should have been enjoying a rather lovely breakfast with the Vice-president's wife. Crowley hadn't considered this, and so the Dowling family found themselves, jetlagged and sleep deprived, having afternoon tea in the garden instead.

Warlock was thrilled to be home.

“I don’t see what was so important we had to cancel on Beryl.” Mrs Dowling picked up her tea cup and, wishing it were coffee, took a careful sip.

“I didn’t question an urgent message from the head of CIA, darling.“Besides,” her husband continued, “Look how happy it’s made Warlock.”

The child in question had wandered off from the patio, tea messily half slurped, and chocolate biscuits crammed, crumby and melty, into the trouser pocket of Savile Row’s finest bespoke afternoon attire, and was now crawling about in the flower beds, eyes close to the ground as he dug through the soil looking for worms. He didn’t know what he’d do with the worms yet, but he had plenty of spare pockets, and plenty of ideas.

At the bottom of the garden, unknown to all but three curious sparrows, an angel and a demon stood watching from the other side of the fence, peering around the bushes. They could just make out Warlock’s shoes in the mud.

“Well, there he is, my dear. Looking as spritely as ever. Getting on well with all of God’s creations I see.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Looking to turn them into a mid-morning snack, more like.”

“I do think we need to get closer, though.” Aziraphale continued, ignoring any attempt to besmirch Warlock’s moral character. “You might be right about needing to check the boy. It’s odd, I can’t sense much of a presence from him at all. Not even a human one. How about we go and say hello, for old time’s sake?”

“Yes, alright, we’ll just waltz up to the table shall we? Oh don’t mind us, just checking if your son is still, in fact, all completely human. I’m sure that’ll go over well,” Crowley hissed, high pitched. “No, we’ll have to do this quietly.” He scanned the area, contemplating the best move. With a quick check behind them, a glance left and a glance right, he bent the fence in and out of the current plane of existence, and Crowley stepped on through.

Aziraphale was a little disappointed Crowley wouldn’t just go and say hello to the boy he obviously missed, but far be it from him to force a demon to admit his feelings. He shook his head a little, and followed Crowley through the gap. Warlock’s presence washed over him, strong, warm, and entirely human. He sighed in relief.

“Well, Crowley. That’s much better.” Aziraphale turned and gave Crowley his best beaming smile. Or, he would have, except Crowley had vanished. It took a moment of frowning at the space Crowley should have occupied, before a muffled choking sound brought his gaze downwards.

“Grrngh- ack-” Crowley sputtered, teeth clenching through spasms, back arching at an unnatural angle as his fingers dug into the dirt where he lay.

“Crowley!” 

“Ngk!” Crowley bit down on his lip hard, eyes wide and white, seeing nothing. Crowley writhed, and the soil around him shivered.

Aziraphale dropped to the ground beside him, spread out his hands and _pushed,_ angelic feelers searching and seeking their way around Crowley’s body. The ground glowed. A deep, burnt orange tinge coated it all, iron rust and dry rot, just a glimpse of it on Aziraphale’s senses. The taint of sulphur and demon’s blood.

“Crowley, it’s a trap!”

Crowley kicked one of the rose bushes in response[3], a particularly violent tremor locking his jaw in place, and a gurgling noise escaped his throat as he choked on his tongue. “Ngh- gh!”

“Indeed, my dear boy, let’s get you out of here.”

And with that the two mysterious figures disappeared.

-

[3] This irritated the sparrows, who up until this point had been keenly interested in proceedings from their perches amongst the roses. They puffed up their feathered chests and flapped away, leaving the strange-looking creature on the floor, and moved on to see if the miniature human had found their afternoon snack yet. [return]

-

The bookshelves in a quaint London bookshop rattled in place, the antique wood groaning in a manner unbefitting of brand new un-burnt oak, and the pages of the books shivered in their spines. Simultaneously, Crowley thudded down onto the new-old floor of the bookshop, and groaned right along with the shelves.

“I had aimed for the sofa.” Aziraphale frowned, as if the offending furniture had moved itself on purpose. Crowley whimpered[4]. Sweat had begun beading on his forehead, a few drops and a light sheen, not yet forming a trickle. _Odd,_ Aziraphale thought. _Shouldn’t demons be used to the heat?_ But out loud he said: “Come on, let’s get you up.”

He bent down to scoop Crowley up, getting an arm under Crowley’s gangly legs and reaching a hand up to the back of his neck. And then Crowley screamed. A God-awful shrieking shout that reverberated through Aziraphale’s corporation and bounced and echoed around all the nooks and crannies of the living room. He flinched back, hand throbbing where it had brushed Crowley’s skin and his fingers came away red, blistering, and pulsing in the dim light. Crowley’s neck fared no better. Worse, even. Aziraphale could see a dark, oozing _something_ seeping down and dripping onto the wood, each drop creating a small tapping sound that echoed just as loudly in the stillness as the scream before it. 

What in the heavens?” Aziraphale stared down at his fingers, forgetting to blink[5]. His body should feel pain, and so it did, but not nearly as much as it ought.

This particular curse was nasty.

 _“Hastur,”_ Crowley growled out behind clenched teeth. “He was- was _waiting_.”

“For us?”

“For _me."_ Crowley’s head collapsed back onto the floor with a thud, wide eyed and panting. From his point of view, he could just about see the deep crease between Aziraphale’s eyebrows, and the red welts on his hand. “My fault. ‘M sorry. Should have- Known. _Stupid!”_

“My dear boy, how could you have possibly known such a thing?” Aziraphale wanted to reach out for him again, had to stop himself from simply leaning forward to touch, to comfort. He held his hand, poised in between them, and instead clicked his fingers. The couch didn’t so much move to be underneath Crowley as it simply changed to have always been there.

Crowley’s head throbbed, a pulsating pain radiating down his spine, causing muscles to contract and shudder painfully with every beat, even resting on the copious cushions now underneath him. The oozing mess from his neck had slowed, but still smeared down onto the sofa, leaving a dark, ugly stain. Aziraphale tried to miracle it away, but found it unco-operative, in the way that demonic things generally were.

“Should’ve… Ah-h! Expected he’d want revenge. Could’ve easily guessed we’d- I’d go check up on the spawn.”

“Not spawn. Just a child.”

“Mggghn,” Crowley agreed, biting his tongue to muffle the agony from Aziraphale’s ears. Judging by the return of the eyebrow crease, it didn’t work nearly as well as he’d hoped. 

“I didn’t sense any demonic activity. Other than you, of course.”

“Must have been something at the house. We triggered it.”

“I see.” Aziraphale contemplated the information before deciding the who and why didn’t much matter at the moment. The _how_ was much more important. “Well, let’s see what we can do about fixing it, shall we?”

“I don’t think you can miracle this better, Aziraphale,” Crowley panted.

“I can try.”

Crowley, despite everything, still managed a disbelieving glare. Aziraphale could heal Crowley’s corporation in the blink of an eye, of course, if it were a physical wound. A little miracle would fix it right up. And it was easy to miracle away a demonic curse on a human host, one simply banished the evil straight back to hell. A demonic curse on another demon was a different story, and an overzealous angel could easily banish the demon straight back to hell as well, not that most angels[6] would care.

“Are you going to miracle me away too?”

“Don’t be silly, Crowley. I know your brand of evil like the back of my hand. It will be a piece of cake to separate the two. A walk in the park, as it were.”

They both tried really hard not to think that, if things went wrong, the result would be a far cry from a simple banishment. Total and complete annihilation was not on Crowley’s to-do list anymore than a trip downstairs to catch up with Dagon was. 

“It’s worth a shot. What else can we do, Crowley?” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley swallowed, a heavy lump in his throat, but he nodded once, resigned to his fate.

-

[4] If Crowley remembered this in the future, he would deny it vehemently. [return]

[5] For a creature with thousands of eyes, keeping two of them under control was surprisingly difficult sometimes. [return]

[6] Or demons, for that matter. [return]

-

It was worse than Aziraphale had thought. He walked the metaphysical plane, simultaneously inside and outside creation. It reminded him of how it had been before. Before humans and mortal creatures, and earth and sky and sun. It was quiet. He found he didn’t like it very much, not anymore, and when he opened his eyes upon Crowley’s black soul, vast and swirling, he found it tangled and jagged, rough edges chipped away and torn. Tendrils of demonic magic streamed past in pulsing lines, swirling around Aziraphale’s light, snaking and twining and winding tighter and tighter, squeezing Crowley and keeping him bound in its grasp. Giant barbs of evil had dug into Crowley’s soul, trying to swallow him whole.

Detangling an object that didn’t fully exist on the physical realm was a lot like knitting, Aziraphale decided. Assuming the yarn was semi-visible, writhing, and physically repulsed by your presence[7]. Freeing Crowley from such a prickly sludge of _wrong_ was going to take some time.

“Well then,” Aziraphale said, daunted but stubborn. “Let’s get started.” 

He reached out with ethereal magic, a slice of pure light attempting to slide between Crowley and the squirming mass surrounding him. The thick tendrils turned to smoke the moment he came close, scattering in the light, only to re-emerge wider and denser in the shadows, pulling and tearing at the core of Crowley’s existence. _It must be agony,_ Aziraphale realised.

Crowley’s wings shifted, scattered shadows casting darkness in the divine light, fragmented magic falling and rising in the rough shape of broken quills and soft down. The curse tightened its hold with the movement. Crowley screamed. Not out loud, this wasn’t the place for things like _sound,_ but Aziraphale sensed the vibration in every surrounding atom. 

He reached out once more, pulling and slashing and hacking at the unfamiliar evil holding his demon hostage. The curse gripped onto Crowley like hooks through flesh, and came away with the same ripping, squelching sensation Aziraphale remembered from torture chambers in the Middle Ages, wriggling in his grasp until finally it gave way, but not without tearing parts of Crowley away with it. 

He banished it to hell, and as he finished, three more tendrils grew and rose, whipping around him and spinning darker before latching back onto Crowley. Aziraphale clenched his jaw (as much as he could clench a jaw in a place where your corporation couldn’t follow) and frowned (metaphorically). Time for something a little more drastic, he decided. He rose up, sending out wave after wave of angelic light to every corner, every gap in the woven fabric of the curse, and pushed.

The curse pushed back.

It flung Aziraphale outward, inward, and back to where he came from. In this case, he landed squarely back in his corporation in his bookshop, having never really left in the first place, of course. Looking around, the bookshop was disconcertingly exactly how he left it. No sign whatsoever of a slightly unsuccessful thwarting. Crowley, however, looked worse.

Black-red blood trickled down from his mouth and nose, his breathing shallow and laboured, with a faint wheezing rattle coming from somewhere in his chest. His arm hung limply off the side of the sofa, and his head bent awkwardly on the arm rest.

“Hrrrngh,” Crowley managed, fingers twitching.

“Crowley? Crowley can you hear me?!”

Further twitching was the only response. Aziraphale dove forward, peering down into glassy reptilian eyes, grasping Crowley’s face between his hands. Immediately Crowley’s skin blistered under his fingers, red painful sores that bubbled up where Aziraphale had touched. Crowley’s sharp inhale was enough to dislodge Aziraphale’s hands, but he watched in horror as the blisters spread, further and further, across Crowley’s face.

A muffled whine escaped through clenched teeth, and Crowley’s resulting sobs left a tangible taste of salt in the air, harsh on Aziraphale’s tongue. He stared down at Crowley at a loss. He didn’t know what to do.

-

[7] Based on Aziraphale’s one and only experience of knitting, he was entirely sure that this was the case. Demonic plots were definitely afoot at the Westminster Ladies’ Local Knit and Natter group. Making socks definitely shouldn’t have required a minor miracle just to produce an argyle good enough to shut Veronica Marshall up once and for all. [return]

-

The vivid orange in Crowley’s eyes turned brassy over the next few hours, fading gradually into a dull umber. The sweating had started up once more, with all the punch of a summer sauna, and Aziraphale managed very, very carefully, to keep Crowley cool with a damp washcloth. 

“The garden. Gotta get out of the garden.” 

“What’s that, Crowley?” Crowley’s semi-lucidity had crept up slowly, feverish mumblings muttered in half-wakefulness, in between dozing and twitching and occasional agonised screaming.

“Garden,” he said again, so faintly Aziraphale could only just hear it over the persistent rattle that followed every halting breath. Crowley shivered. Aziraphale miracled up a blanket and tucked it neatly around him, careful of his hands and keeping a layer of cloth between them at all times. He took time to smooth out the creases, frowning all the while, and, when he deemed his task done, went to fetch a glass of water.

He hadn’t been gone more than a minute, but his shoulders slumped when he returned to find the blanket pushed all the way down and hanging off the edge, gripping to Crowley’s leg with all the strength a blanket could summon to avoid becoming a crumpled heap on the floor[8]. 

Aziraphale sighed and placed the water on the table, condensation working its way down to two hundred year old wood (or six month old, depending on your perspective). Aziraphale didn’t even notice. He scrutinised Crowley’s prone form. Despite the obvious wiggling necessary for blanket wrestling, Crowley seemed to have settled down into a light doze. His breathing remained shallow, but had calmed, coming out even and slow, his eyes fluttering minutely with every exhale. One hand rested on Crowley’s belly, and the knuckles of the other just grazed the floor. 

Sleep, however fitful, couldn’t hurt, Aziraphale reasoned, and left Crowley to it. He was an angel on a mission. That his mission involved saving a demon was something that, not too long ago, the very thought of would have felt like blasphemy. Now though, his focus was on the back of his bookshop, where some very useful items had been placed for safekeeping. 

Keeping one ear out, he made his way through the stacks, coming to a stop in front of a desk, simple in appearance and heaving with the weight placed upon it. Over the centuries it had been used for many purposes: surface-to-put-paper-on; surface-to-put-plants-on; surface-to-write-on; and on one memorable occasion, surface-to-put-feet-on. Sturdy wooden legs shook at the barely repressed memory. For the last few decades, its job became surface-to-put-books-on. Lots of books. Oodles of books. And it was very proud to say that it did its job well, even if the copious piles were starting to warp the timber. 

Aziraphale paid no mind to the table’s condition and began removing the books, one stack at a time, slowly but surely. As the piles dwindled they slowly revealed their secrets. Items behind the desk were revealed in this order:

  1. Wallpaper, embarrassingly un-faded, showing just how old the rest of the walls really were.
  2. A dusty door frame.
  3. A door. Unassuming, brown, with cracked varnish and a small brass handle.



Over the years, Aziraphale had collected a number of highly arcane and occult works, and hidden them where no prying human eyes could find them. For their protection of course[9]. Behind the door, hidden from view, was where he kept them.

One of them must have, if not the answer, than at least something useful to point Aziraphale in the right direction. A demonic book for a demonic problem, he thought, picking up the table with barely a huff or a heave ho. The handle turned with a creak, and the air inside swirled with newly disturbed dust, fresh air mixing with stale. Angelic protections hummed with the intrusion, a vibration on the ethereal plane, a breeze through invisible feathers on hidden wings. Aziraphale waved them away with a hand and shut the door behind him. He regarded the occult selection before him, re-familiarising himself with his collection, and began pulling out those that seemed the most useful for the task at hand. There were books on curses from the 17th century, collections of spells from hedgewitches with poultice recipes and lists of everyday herbs, an almanac from a wizard in the middle ages with a complete list of known hexes and counter-hexes, an entire volume on demonic theology, and several manuscripts on potions and poisons, and most importantly, antidotes. Aziraphale switched on the dusty light, not updated since the advent of electricity, and it even surprised itself when it hummed to life. He sat down at a small side table placed haphazardly in the corner (the dust underneath its feet would suggest it hadn’t been there prior to the door opening 10 minutes ago), and he began to read.

-

[8] Which is to say, not very much, and it was one twitch away from falling. [return]

[9]Not even the angel really knew if he was protecting the humans from the books, or if he was protecting the books from _them._ Not that he’d ever admit that out loud. [return]

-

Aziraphale lost track of time. Amidst the papyrus scrolls and the parchment tomes with thick leather bindings, embossed cow skin or engraved goat hide, it was in a simple plain diary from a witch’s apprentice that Aziraphale caught the first hint of a clue. One particular page caught his attention. The page felt thin and fragile as he ran his gloved fingertips across each line, and the ink had faded into a bare glimmer of words. He peered down at each paragraph, each sentence, frowning under the dim lamp light in the small stuffy room. And, eventually, under the focus of a well manicured index finger, he noted an anomaly. A very slight, hardly noticeable crease ran along the edge of one of the middle pages. He traced his finger down it, not visible to the eye, no matter how much he squinted at it, but he could feel it under his hand, running all the way down from the top of the page to the bottom.

“Curious.”

With no small amount of hesitation does the book collector give away his books. It is with an even greater amount of hesitation that the book collector willfully damages his collection. However, when the collector’s best friend’s life is on the line, the knives come out. Or in this case, a particularly sharp letter opener. Aziraphale made a very careful slit all along the length of the page, hoping his instincts weren’t misleading him[10]. He held his breath and gently prised apart the two halves of the page. The scent of old book glue mixed with the smell of vanillin from the pages as one page became two, gently unsticking after at least two centuries, if not more.

The freshly revealed pages read as follows:

_Dear Mr Percy Goodman,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and your family in good health. It is with some hesitation I write this down. I am in two minds about the practices of Mistress Prowde. I was assured that we did God’s work, that he willed us to help those in need and hinder those that dealt in evil, and so with this in mind I began my studies of the olde magics. On the day, just after the dawn birds sang, as I went to deliver the fresh ingredients to Mistress Prowde, I heard her speak with a man in her home. That she, an unmarried woman, would take this man into her home sometime after sundown and he stayed there until the morn is not even the most scandalous thing. This man, with an aura of deepest red, called himself a servant of Satan, and bid Mistress Prowde to give him a spell to hinder the work of angels, to which she offered him a spell without hesitation. The instructions she gave him would render the touch and magic of our Lord’s messengers to be the most painful and useless of skills. Why, if we do the Lord’s work, would she offer this man such a curse? Why would she turn her back on the Church and all that is good and right? Perhaps the study of witchcraft is not such a noble calling as I thought._

_Miss Florence Gibbs, Apprentice Witch._

That explained his inability to help Crowley then, he thought. Witch work in the hands of demons. What rotten luck. At least he knew, and he had Miss Florence Gibbs to thank. He glanced at it again, cogs turning. The name sounded vaguely familiar. He’d met a great number of Florences and Gibbses over the years, in a varying manner of professions, but the one that sprang to mind was a Mrs Florence Maydestone[11] who, together with her husband, had written a rather lovely (and rather rare) book on the science behind demon hunting and exorcism. Come to think of it, Aziraphale realised, there had been a few useful banishing rituals in that book. The Maydestones had been very creative in demon removal. If nothing else, it might give him a hint. Unfortunately, Aziraphale had never quite managed to get his hands on a copy, and the only one he knew of sat squarely in the midst of one of the largest libraries in the world. Conveniently, however, it was just a couple of tube stops down the road.

-

[10] They had before, which was how he’d ended up naked on Hampstead Heath in the mid 1890s, and again in the 1960s. That, however, was a very different story. [return]

[11] neé Gibbs. [return]

-

Aziraphale, having been immersed in the world of books for quite a while longer than he had owned a book shop, eagerly remembered the opening of the British Museum’s reading room. He also remembered, with a certain amount of unangelic jealousy, the removal of the Museum Library into what is now known as the British Library. All those books in one place and he couldn’t keep any of them. Last time he’d tried, he’d ended up in a bit of a disagreement with the staff, and so it was with a bit of a twitch that Aziraphale crossed the threshold into the library. He ignored it. Mr. Keating probably wouldn’t remember him anyway.

His coat and jacket had been manhandled away from him and now sat in the cloakroom. He’d been checked for pens, pencils, ink, and any other way he could mark the books, as if he were some kind of _amateur._ He barely held back his scoff [12] as he was directed to a chair in one of the reading rooms and left to wait. And wait. And wait. He tapped his foot. Or rather, his foot tapped on its own accord, and Aziraphale tried his best not to think of Crowley lying on the couch in the bookshop. Alone. His foot tapped again. He checked his watch. The door remained closed and he glared at it, willing the librarian to enter holding _A Surgeon’s Guide to the Isolation, Removal, and Cure of Demonic Influences_ before the security personnel caught on that he was, technically, if he were being totally honest, barred from entry. He sighed and checked his watch again.

He thought about Crowley.

He thought about Crowley and stood up, determined to go and find the book himself if that’s what it took. He certainly wasn’t any stranger to the Dewey Decimal System, even if his own book shop was slightly more chaotic in its organisation. 

“Here you go, one book on demonic exorcisms.” The librarian pushed her way into the room just as he took his first step toward the door and Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. “Bit peculiar, this one. It was listed under medicine, but I suppose we just haven’t got around to recategorizing it.”

Aziraphale, knowing full well that a book would find its way to the shelf it considered home one way or another, only nodded. It most likely had already been reclassified, but simply didn’t like its neighbours in the section of the archive they’d tried to put it. Still, he nodded his response and refrained from snatching the book out of her hands. It would only get him a lecture on proper treatment of library property anyway, so he waited a little more for her to place it on the desk, get his signature, and leave the room.

The theft of a library book only made Aziraphale slightly nervous. He’d taken multiple documents before, for safekeeping, confident in the knowledge that he was doing the heavenly thing by looking after them. It had never occurred to him that “safekeeping” the vessels of knowledge would have been frowned upon by his angelic colleagues, mainly because he determindly didn’t think about it. Now, however, he was fairly certain that theft, particularly theft in the name of saving a demon, wouldn’t have put him in their good books. It was a good thing he was already in the bad books, he reasoned. He might as well add demonically beneficial theft to the list.

It then took him two seconds to cross the room, pick up the book, and miracle himself back to the bookshop.

-

[12] The look on the librarian’s face at the time might suggest he hadn’t succeeded at all. [return]

-

An unconscious demon greeted him when he arrived. It wasn’t a particularly warm greeting, and involved Crowley sweating profusely and taking shallow, staggered breaths. The scent of sulphur had intensified and become detectable without the use of any angelic senses, hanging around and mingling with the smell of antique books and decades old furniture polish, congealing into a sickly smog of wrongness that permeated throughout the living room. Aziraphale spared a moment's thought for the soft furnishings. He pulled up a cushioned chair and sat down to read at Crowley’s side, resisting the urge to turn his nose up at the smell.

The book was in surprisingly good condition, considering its age and the manhandling it would have undoubtedly received at the library. The spine only complained quietly as he thumbed it open with gloved hands, and the pages remained fairly sturdy and stable, not as fragile as he’d expect from a book this old, or this rare.

‘To banish demonic forces,’ the pages read in an elegant sprawling script, only a touch faded from the original dark ink. Aziraphale certainly wanted to keep Crowley where he was, but the other _thing_ … Well, that definitely had to go.

‘The best and most reliable way to return an evil entity back to whence it came is with a good and noble man of God. However, in my experience, true noble priests are hard to come by, and men of God have often given in to temptation, hiding behind their silken collars and solid reputation. So, if a true priest can not be found, then a witch of Moral Character will be the next best thing.

‘Without summoning ethereal magics, you will first need a key to open the door. Take the metal iron that is found unlooked for, and from its total fashion thyself an amulet in the shape of a key. The size holds no bearing on the outcome. When the key is made, have the witch put it at night with the sacrifice of a white feather and the blood of hens in a quadrangle way, with the standard protection ritual that is preferred. 

‘Inscribe upon the key the words “May I prevail and fulfil my will” and place it in a jug filled with flour and honey. Let it be there 3 days and 3 nights and on the third day wash it with moon-blessed water in the rising of Venus, and then the key will be complete.

‘Upon completion, you can start the ritual of banishment.’

The book in hand went on to list numerous ways of banishment, listed according to circumstance, type of demonic influence, purity of soul, the weather, and, strangely, the annual migration of geese. Aziraphale skimmed it all with the receiver to his ear, having already hurriedly dialled the phone.

“Tadfield 759013. This is Anathema. If you’re calling about the herbs, they won’t be ready until next week.” 

“Anathema, this is Aziraphale.” Aziraphale said, before pausing, not entirely sure if Anathema would know - or remember - who he was. “That is to say I don’t know if you recall- we were at the airbase. And once we helped you with your bike, though I’m still dreadfully sorry about all that-”

There was a pause on the line as the witch on the other end processed the mad rush of words that flooded her quiet cottage, the tinny fuzz of the phone speaker out of place amongst the noises of the countryside village that drifted in through the open windows.

“The angel with the cocoa,” she said, eventually, her brain slotting the puzzle pieces together and placing a face to the voice.

“I- er, yes. How did you know that?”

“I figured it out.” Anathema was used to having her intelligence dismissed. Her clumsiness, and her love of conspiracy theories, often had people rolling their eyes, but when it came to The Book, and the contents thereof, she was an expert. 

“Right. Jolly good. Well then, I’m actually calling for a favour.” Aziraphale bumbled on, cheerful charm on setting ‘high’. Even the neighbours could feel it, and they wondered why they found themselves giving small smiles to the bookshop as they went about their business. “My friend is really quite sick, caught a bit of a nasty demonic bug, and I’ve found what could be the answer in an old book I borrowed, but it does call for the expertise of one such as yourself.”

“Me?”

“A witch.” Aziraphale twiddled the cord of the phone between his fingers, waiting, hoping Anathema didn’t say no, or worse, just hang up the phone. Meanwhile, on the other end of the line, Anathema was already turning off the oven, switching off the lights, and grabbing her emergency witch’s kit (which included commonly used magical herbs, three types of candles, ritual knickknacks, and a spare pair of underwear).

“Uh-huh, and what exactly is this cure of yours asking for?” she said, stuffing three pairs of socks into the kit, just in case.

“It sounds quite complex,” he explained a rush. “It will take three days and nights, the blood of hens, some feathers, some moon blessed water-”

“Aziraphale, are you talking about a Key of Francis?” Anathema turned on her heel and plucked a keyring off the wall and dropped it in her pocket. She also fished a cookie out of the jar and took a large bite, listening to Aziraphale sputter down the phone.

“A Key of _Francis?”_

“Sure,” she said, mouth full of crumbs and chocolate chips. “Every witch worth her magic salt has a Key of Francis in the family.” 

Oh. 

Aziraphale’s mind went blank for a moment. If angels believed in coincidences, this would be a very convenient one, he thought, and promptly shook the thought away. 

“...Could I borrow it please?” he said into the phone instead.

“Sure. You’re still in London, yes? I’ll be there in two hours,” she said, stepping out of the front door and locking the cottage door behind her.

-

“One Key of Francis, as promised.” Anathema walked into the bookshop and immediately handed over a small iron object, crudely carved and slightly rusty around the handle. It radiated power in waves, permeating the air with potential for magics unknown. It also gave Aziraphale a slight headache.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching out with an extended palm, in which Anathema deposited the key. “I really do appreciate your help.”

“It’s no trouble,” she said, eyes roaming around the bookshop, flitting from shelf to shelf. The books weren’t sure what to make of her observation, but her eyes snapped back to Aziraphale before they could make up their spines about it. “Can I see the patient?”

“Of course, right this way." Aziraphale backed away from the entrance and led her through the bookshop, which seemed to have an aura of its own. Anathema couldn’t see it, per se, even though she tried, but she could feel it: a tinge of cozy homeliness and a touch of ferocious protectiveness. It was then a bit of a shock to walk into the back room and see a demonic aura on the couch. 

“Um…” she said, eyes switching from focusing on the aura to Crowley’s face with a startled blink. “He’s evil.”

“Yes, of course. He _is_ a demon after all,” Aziraphale said, chipper and matter of fact, completely ignoring the way Anathema’s eyes bulged. If she had worked out Crowley’s demonic status at the airbase, it hadn’t been a detail that had stuck. “But he’s only a little bit evil,” Aziraphale continued. “He’s also a little bit good, but don’t ever tell him I said that.”

Anathema nodded, eyebrows frowning a touch indelicately, but sure enough when she focused on the aura again, she could see the shimmer of something not quite as dark as she first thought. The aura was also weak. Very weak. And fading fast.

“I don’t think we have much time,” she said, turning to Aziraphale.

“Yes, right.” Aziraphale flitted over to the table and indicated the book lying on its surface, obviously old and well read. “This is where it mentions the Key of Francis. Does it seem fairly standard to you?”

Anathema walked over and peered down at the pages, flipping back and forth from one to another. Aziraphale tried not to comment at the mistreatment[13]. “Seems to be,” she confirmed, skimming the contents with an expert eye. “Though, this doesn’t exactly seem like a simple case. Banishing demonic forces _from a demon_ might be a fairly tricky task.”

“Can you do it?”

“I don’t see why not.” She turned to face Crowley again, frown back in place, tapping a finger on the currently open page. The book preened (silently) at the attention. “We’ll just have to make some adjustments that’s all.”

“Adjustments such as?”

“Well, we’ll need something to tether him, or rather, his demonic essence, here. To keep the bits we want, and keep them where they are meant to be, instead of bundling all the evil bits off together, which I assume is not what you want.”

“That would be less than ideal, certainly.”

“Alright then. Most of these rituals are fairly standard. Bat's wing and hen’s blood, or milk and honey, or ash and salt. Personally I’m partial to milk and honey. All you need is a trip to the store.” She picked up the side table and the book as she spoke, moving it to the edge of the room, followed by one stack of books, then two, and three, piling them along the sides of the wall. “But the tether… That’s not exactly going to be shop bought.”

“Whatever you need, I’ll see it done.”

Anathema finished propping the rug up in the corner of the room and turned to face Aziraphale. Her lip twitched and Aziraphale recognised the sheen in her eye.

“The easiest, most reliable way to tether someone to a place or realm is with love.” 

“Love?”

Anathema could barely keep her face straight at the incredulity in Aziraphale’s voice. “Yes,” she said. “Love.” The rug in the corner slumped down the wall and she picked it up and rebalanced it without looking. The rug, having been rudely awakened after a decade long nap was having none of it, and slid down the wall again in protest. “Cliche, I know, but the classics are classics for a reason. They really do work.”

“And how exactly are we going to be harnessing the power of love?” Aziraphale, being an angel, had nothing against the power of love, as ridiculous as it sounded. A conscious Crowley, however, would have rolled his eyes so hard he would have fallen over, and probably broken some furniture. And maybe a bone.

“Well, we’d have a loved one hold onto him to tether him physically, and at the same time have them concentrate vividly on everything that makes Crowley, _Crowley,_ to tether him spiritually. With a little magical help, enough force of thought, combined with the powerful emotion of love...” She paused, doubting herself for only a moment, but enough to actually ask. “You do love him, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, I’m an angel. I love everything. It’s part of the job requirement[14],” Aziraphale sniffed, to which Anathema gave him an unimpressed look, but didn’t pursue the thought further. Aziraphale continued. “However, the curse was modified. Any time I touch him, there is some kind of intense allergic reaction. Screaming, pain, boils, ominous oozing, the works. I can’t hold onto him.”

Anathema’s face fell minutely. “Oh,” she said, in a small voice that still managed to fill the room with tangible disappointment. The rug stuck out a proverbial tongue. She carried on regardless, thoughtfully placing ritual candles from her kit in a circle on the now empty floor space.

“Are there any alternative tethers we could use?”

“Well, technically yes.” She placed the last candle on the floor and folded her arms in front of her, hugging herself tight, wishing for the first time since she burnt The Book that she had a little guidance. “But they are definitely less effective, and as he’s already so weak, and this being a rather complicated extraction, I’m not sure we should risk it unless we have no option. Is there anyone else who loves him? Close friends? Family? Do demons _have_ family?”

Aziraphale paused. The clock on the wall ticked on regardless, though all the furniture and all the woodworm held a collective breath.

“You know,” he said, looking down at Crowley’s shivering body, “I think there just might be.”

-

[13] Anathema, having grown up mistreating rare, old family heirlooms, paid no heed to the delicate nature of the book, nor the constipated expression on the angel’s face. [return]

[14] That he’d quit (or been fired, however you choose to look at it) was irrelevant. He’d still go about being an angel and loving everyone and everything, even if he didn’t have heaven’s approval. [return]

-

Warlock had never been to a bookshop before. He’d seen books for sale, e-books, right next to the games and movies, but he’d never paid any attention to them before. Stepping into the room stacked from ceiling to floor with books after books after books was like something out of a movie, he thought. Definitely cool. Not that he had any intention to read one, of course. The thought never even crossed his mind[15].

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t stupid. He’d had the finest tutors money could buy after all. And when one day his Nanny had left and the next day a tutor with similar looks, voice, and philosophy had turned up, he worked it out. Nanny Ashtoreth was always looking out for him, one way or another.

So, now, to see her lying unconscious, sick and feverish instead of strong and fearless, scared him. He was a scared, eleven year old boy, and his nanny was sick. He reached out and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand[16]. 

“Will she get better?”

“That rather depends on you, my dear chap. Anathema here is a witch, and she’s going to try some magic, but we need your help for it to work.”

He perked right up. “I can do magic?”

“Well,” said Anathema, from her cross legged position on the floor. “Of a sort. You’ll be helping me do magic, mostly.”

Warlock weighed it up in his head. Magic _of a sort_ was better than not doing any magic at all. “Ok,” he said, simply nodding his head.

“Great. What I need you to do is hold this key-”

“Is it a magic key?”

“Yes, it’s a magic key.”

“It doesn't _look_ like a magic key.” It looked old. Magic keys should be old, Warlock thought, but the kind of old that made them look mysterious and foreboding, not the kind of old that made them look like 20 year old trash. He hesitated. “Do you swear it’s a magic key?”

“I swear.”

“Alright then.” He said slowly, placated but doubtful. “What else?”

“Well, you hold this key the entire time in one hand, and hold Crow- I mean, your Nanny’s hand with the other. You’ve got to hold both the whole time or it won’t work. And then you think, really, really hard, about your Nanny, and what she means to you, and everything you remember about her. Ok?”

“Ok.” It sounded pretty simple to Warlock, and entirely _un-_ magical. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to cast the spell to get rid of the curse.”

“Wicked.” The awe in Warlock’s voice was audible, and Anathema didn’t know if it made her proud or nervous. She was used to expectations after all, but never one of a child, nor, for that matter, one of an angel. She busied herself mixing the ingredients in a cast iron bowl, anti-clockwise with a spoon made from elder wood, painted with lacquer mixed with salt and ash, and inscribed with runes from at least three ancient civilizations. Anathema had no idea what they meant, but Aziraphale recognised one or two from his travelling days to mean “not a soup spoon” and “Ulrik stinks”.

“Now remember,” she said, turning back to Warlock, bowl of ingredients clasped in her hands. “You have to think really hard about your Nanny. Especially how much you love her.”

Warlock nodded, and at Anathema’s indication, reached out to take Crowley’s hand. Aziraphale hovered in the corner by the rug, which had now sulked itself down into a crumpled heap, and watched. 

The lights dimmed on their own accord and Anathema lifted the bowl out in front of her. Warlock sat on the sofa next to Crowley’s head, hand clamped down on Crowley’s own. Warlock’s eyes did a funny combination of wanting to screw tightly closed in concentration, and needing to remain wide eyed and enthralled with the actions of a real live witch, resulting in a rather lopsided squint. 

Anathema muttered, not in latin as you might expect, but in a language much, much older. So old, in fact, that the only people who remembered how to speak it were all witches, and all of them now spoke with an accent completely unrecognisable next to the original[17]. The contents of the bowl seemed to squirm, like soil and earth bulging upwards due to the movements of too many wriggling earthworms. Smoke began to fill the room, a thick mist, clean and crisp as if the fog from the moors and mountains had rolled on in to central London, without picking up any dirt or pollution. It smelled green and fresh, overpowering the sulphur scent and the ever present overtone of antique books and London muck. The mist surrounded them all, dense enough they could barely see each other, but it swarmed Crowley completely. The sofa completely disappeared into the fog and the faint outline of Warlock’s dark hair remained; the only thing giving away its position. 

Anathema continued to chant. Crowley began to scream. 

Aziraphale’s eyes bulged. He pushed himself from the wall with a sharp intake of breath and opened his senses Time on the earthly realm slowed to a crawl as Aziraphale moved his presence, transcending to the metaphysical plane between one breath and the next. In front of him the squirming demonic shadows vibrated at an alarming frequency, so fast and so high pitched it hurt his soul to feel it. He metaphorically winced and turned his focus to Crowley.

His demonic core had been engulfed by the cursed vines since the last time Aziraphale had visited, fractured shadows for wings now barely visible, flattened and crushed. Crowley was weak and running out of time, Aziraphale could see it. But time had all but paused in this pocket of reality, and, between the tangled mess and the vibration of screaming atoms and the absence of light centered on the two demonic forces, Aziraphale glimpsed his first bit of hope. Inch by inch, the tendrils of evil were sluggishly unwinding from around Crowley’s evil core, slowly but surely loosening their grip, vine by vine. Crowley was fighting back. The spell was working. Aziraphale’s eyes gleamed at the sight. 

“Keep going,'' he shouted above the noise, time snapping back to full speed like a rubber band as he returned to his body in the bookshop.

Anathema’s eyes flicked in his direction, still chanting, but the angelic colour scheme almost completely blended in with the fog, which churned in a vicious dance, keeping time with the rhythm of Anathema’s voice. The movement swelled and rose with each syllable, the fog expanding and thickening, filling every nook and cranny and crack and crease until the whole room was hidden in the thick of it. It roiled and rose, further and further. Aziraphale was breathing it in with each inhale, unable to breathe it out; there was no more space for it to fill. He gasped, hand rising to his throat. 

Then it vanished. All was silent.

The whiplash of sight and sound, the room suddenly visible and absent of any mist, overwhelmed their senses. For a moment, no one could move. Their eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of blinding white, and their lungs expanded and processed the now usual air of a quaint, old, antique book shop. It was almost overpowering. 

“Awesome,” Warlock said, sitting bolt upright on the couch, hand still firmly attached to Crowley’s own. His hair was disheveled, but his eyes were wide and bright and _happy_.

Anathema smiled weakly at him, face smudged with ash and dirt and other witchly ingredients, the bowl upturned and askew on the floor in front of her. She slumped over it, drained, having done battle with hell and won. Aziraphale looked the same as ever. He moved over to her, picked her up, and put her down in an armchair, which she folded into, molding to the cushiony surface. 

The books sat quiet on their shelves. Not even a flutter of pages.

“Um, is she alright?” Crowley said, propping himself upright on the sofa and rubbing the back of his hand over his eye. Three heads swivelled in unison as an angel, a witch, and a Warlock all turned their heads to stare in his direction. 

“I’m quite fine thank you,” Anathema said, after gawping disbelievingly for two slow blinks of a snake’s eye. Her statement was rounded off by a large, jaw cracking yawn and then unconsciousness, as she promptly passed out, slumping into the back of the chair.

“Ack!” said Crowley, frantically fumbling with the blanket, attempting and failing to extract himself, still weak, and only loosely in control of his limbs (a perpetual trait).

“Don’t you dare try to stand,” Aziraphale ordered. The divine authority of an angel between jobs was still enough to cause Crowley to shrink back into the pillows under the ethereal finger pointedly wielded in his direction. Warlock sniggered. It was about this time that Crowley became sharply and vividly aware of Warlock’s presence, and of the hand in his own. He twitched, one demonic eyebrow raising in silent question.

“Warlock’s been helping.” Aziraphale clarified, in the most ambiguous way possible. Crowley’s other eyebrow raised to join the first. Two large, orange snake eyes watched, unblinkingly, as the chair Anathema rested on stretched out into a bed at the click of Aziraphale’s fingers. Aziraphale sighed. “You were sick.”

 _“Wicked,”_ said Warlock, staring at the chair-that-was. 

Crowley merely nodded and squeezed the small hand that still held his own.

-

[15] His mind was currently occupied by imagining swinging from shelf to shelf like Tarzan, whilst simultaneously performing an upside down macarena.[return]

[16] Currently recognisable as one of Warlock’s later tutors. [return]

[17] To be fair to the witches, the same thing happened to most languages given enough time and freedom to run wild. Vowel sounds in particular like to go crazy, and most consonants have an experimental phase in their later teenage years. [return]

-

It took Anathema a full night to recover, by which time Aziraphale had returned a reluctant Warlock to his parents, with the promise that Nanny Ashtoreth would visit as soon as she was back at full strength. When Anathema awoke, it was smack bang in the middle of breakfast time, and the smell of British sausages, French toast, and American coffee hit her nose. The scent was almost tangible, and the trail led her to the small, well-worn, and well-loved kitchen tacked onto the back of the shop. 

“Ah, there you are my dear. Did you sleep well?” Aziraphale paused briefly for her to nod, her bed-head hair flopping around with the motion. “I didn’t know what sort of breakfast you’d prefer, so I got something of everything. Coffee?”

“Tea, please, if you have it.”

Aziraphale waved his hand, and the steaming mug on the counter changed from a deep chocolate brown to a rich autumnal amber, and from a mug to an antique teacup, which he handed over promptly. Anathema was impressed. That was magic. Not magic like witch magic, but a different kind of magic. No herbs or spells or sigils needed. She suspected it was something far older and far greater, and she chose not to think about it too much, lest she end up with a headache at 8am. 8am was officially much too early for a headache, she decided, having never had the pleasure of a very merry night followed by a very hungover morning.

“Ignore him. He’s just showing off,” said the newspaper at the kitchen table, after Anathema had taken the cup. Or rather, the person behind it. Tufts of red hair and the rims of large black sunglasses were just visible over the edge of the morning paper. She didn’t know people still read them. Old people, she figured[18]. 

“Oh! Good morning,” she said in a rush when she realised it was her patient, not an inanimate object verbalising over the weekly crossword. “How are you feeling?”

Sunglasses fully appeared as she sat down opposite. A moment went by and Anathema had the peculiar feeling of being inspected by a predator trying to decide if it’s worth the effort to hunt, catch, and kill. It passed in a blink, the only thing to show for it being the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. She took another sip of tea. 

“I feel better,” Crowley said, folding up the paper. 

“Crowley, be nice!”

“I am not-” Crowley cut off when Aziraphale glared. Crowley twitched, mouth twisting, and made a noise that sounded as if he’d accidentally swallowed his tongue. There was another moment, much less intense. Anathema waited.

“I feel better, _thank you_.”

“You are welcome,” she said, taking an elegant sip from an elegant porcelain cup. 

Aziraphale plonked a plate of French toast down on the table, followed by all the makings of a fry-up, and a box of pastries. Anathema didn’t recognise the brand. She wasn’t entirely sure they were local to London[19]. He gave her an empty plate and motioned to the spread. “Help yourself.”

Aziraphale began dollaping large helpings onto his plate. Anathema followed, in more sedate amounts. Crowley sipped his tea. They ate mostly in silence. The food was good, and she eventually realised, had most definitely not been cooked in this kitchen. The oven had no power, there were no dirty pans, no clean ones in the rack. The food had either come from elsewhere, or come from _elsewhere_. Out of nothing. She gave an experiential munch on the nearest hash brown. Tasted real enough, and in the end, she thought, that was mostly what mattered.

“We really are grateful for your help Anathema,” Aziraphale eventually broke the companionable silence.”We were, however, hoping you could help us with one more thing. After breakfast, of course.”

“Sure,” she said, after swallowing a large bite of toast. Heavy magic always did leave her famished. “What needs to be done?”

-

[18] Thinking about _how_ old was another thing she deliberately chose to ignore. The ‘dawn of time’ was awfully old to a human, and equally awful to try and comprehend. Even for a witch. [return]

[19] Or, for that matter, the country. They looked suspiciously Belgian. [return]

-

Crowley walked up to the Dowling residence with some reluctance and a bit of a residual limp. His body ached to the bone, not unlike the time he’d been tackled by three half-naked mercenaries and gone three rounds in a tavern brawl before he managed to slip away into the dark[20]. He grimaced through the pain, breathing through his teeth. Without consistent prodding and pushing from one angelic companion he’d undoubtedly have hesitated the next street over for quite a bit longer. Perhaps all week. 

“This is where the curse was laid?” Anathema asked, taking in the grand property and intricate iron work fences. She frowned at the ornate hedges and delicate rose bushes; it didn’t much look like a place for evil forces to plot an attack.

“Hastur has his moments of fortuitous competence in amongst the general fetid idiocy,” Crowley said with a frown and downturned mouth. He couldn’t sense anything. And he hadn’t last time either, which unnerved him more than he cared to admit. The shadows, once his friends and allies, now all held the potential for menace and backstabbing. Two things a demon ought to be familiar with. Aziraphale reached out and gave him a reassuring pat on one shoulder. “Gerroff!” he grumbled, batting Aziraphale away. 

“And Hastur is another demon?” 

“Yes. An evil demon.”

“I’m evil…” Crowley muttered, almost entirely to himself, slumping his shoulders and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The other two almost entirely ignored him, barring the look Anathema gave him out of the side of her eye.

“Now,” Aziraphale moved over to the fence and created a temporary pass. “The other side is where the trap was laid. If you would be so kind as to help me check for any remnants and remove anything that might be… _clinging_.” He waited for her to nod before he motioned to the fence. She stepped through and Aziraphale followed, closing the gap behind them and leaving Crowley to sulk on the other side.

There was movement in the house, resident staff scurrying about with items and boxes, packing up belongings for a trip back to the States. Warlock ignored it all and lined up his next shot, aiming his Nerf gun at the distant line of toy robots. Anathema resisted the urge to go and say hello, reminding herself she was technically trespassing[21], and winced at the resulting clatter of robot on stone as the toys fell one by one. 

“This is the spot the curse was laid, though I suspect it was attached to the perimeter in general. As soon as Crowley crossed the line it hit him with force.” Aziraphale expanded his senses. The scent of sulphur had faded to barely detectable levels, and the garden was once again flourishing, no sense of rotting vegetation or decay. The only thing out of place was the head of a toy robot, slowly rolling into the grass.“I can’t detect anything here. Is there anything you can see?”

Anathema went a bit cross eyed in her haste to check all of the house and garden at once. The auras of the maids and the butlers flitted in and out of her vision in blues and purples, but nothing evil caught her eye. The house, its people, and the land were clean. She shook her head in response. “There’s nothing.”

“Good.” Aziraphale clapped his hands together decisively, startling a nearby squirrel, and behind him the fence opened with a barely audible _fizzzz_ -pop. “Crowley,” he said, over his shoulder. “Come on through.”

Crowley spun around on the spot, with an awkward flail of gangly limbs. The squirrel, which had only just recovered from its deer in headlights moment, saw the snake-like arms and legs darting rapidly in all directions and decided to build its nest elsewhere. Somewhere safer. Like Cornwall. Everybody loved Cornwall. Crowley, oblivious to the squirrel’s hasty retreat, eyed the fence sceptically, before doing the same to Aziraphale. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, it’s perfectly safe, as far as we can tell.”

“As far as you can tell.” Crowley was also not above the use of air quotes, nor had he ever claimed to be, and he used them now with a great deal of relish, and more than a little flourish.

“Just get over here.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, even as he hid a smug twitch of his lips, and cautiously stepped over the boundary. As soon as both feet touched the soil he froze. He held his breath a moment, and then a moment more. Nothing happened. 

“Seems fine,” he said on the exhale, purposefully ignoring the angelically superior grin directed in his direction. He gave an experimental wiggle, digging into the soil a little with the toe of one shoe and the heel of the other, watching the dirt move under his feet like - dirt. 

“Would this demon- Hastur, would he likely try this again?” Anathema asked, tucking one strand of hair behind her ear. She wasn’t nearly as comfortable hiding in the bushes as the other two seemed to be[22].

“Hm.” Crowley pushed his sunglasses back up his nose. “Possibly. Probably not. Hm. Maybe.”

“We’ll be prepared for it now. I’ll make sure of it.” Aziraphale’s determination made Crowley smile, a lopsided grin that appeared without any instruction from Crowley himself. He’d probably tell it to go away if he had any say in the matter.

“I can prepare some protection wards if you like? For all the places that you visit frequently.” A witch’s wards were nothing to be scoffed at. They weren’t quite as all-powerful as angelic wards, but Aziraphale certainly wasn’t about to turn down the help.

“That would be delightful,” Aziraphale practically beamed at her. If Crowley weren’t wearing shades it would have hurt to look, angelic radiance and all. “We can discuss that as soon as we finish up here.” He turned to Crowley with an expectant eyebrow. “Whenever you’re ready, my boy.”

“Erm. Yeah... “ Crowley grimaced a little, eyes flicking towards the boy playing at the other end of the garden, and didn’t move an inch.

“Crowley!” The insistent exaggerated whisper accompanied an even more demanding eyebrow, and Crowley again rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. It was almost audible. 

“Fine, fine, I’m going,” he said, finally pushing his way out through the bushes to the lawn. Miraculously, no security or staff member noticed or cared about the man suddenly appearing out of the hedgerow and stalking up the grass. They watched as the distant Warlock put down his gun and ran up to his former nanny, who crouched down as soon as the boy drew close, arms ready for the incoming hug, both smiling. 

And in the end, it ended pretty well.

-

[20] Which he only managed when two out of the three of them were reduced to tears at Crowley’s insults to their respective mothers. [return]

[21] It seemed she was making a habit out of it. [return]

[22] Six thousand years worth of experience really does make one blasè about the whole thing. [return]

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback is welcome. Also feel free to poke me on [tumblr.](https://foxintheglade.tumblr.com/)


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